Suspected Emotion

I would tell you that your arms are home,
But they may not hold me.

I would praise the feel of your lips on mine,
But I've never seen them move.

I might relent and say I craved your touch,
Yet what if it's dull or burns?

How many times do we have to learn
That we have so much to learn about one another?

And who can call it desire where its end
And object remain obscured, in distance mired?

I'd like to tell you about the light in your eyes,
But who am I that does not know their color?

I'd like to praise the humor in your voice,
But its tones have never reached my ears.

I might admit I dream up with flesh landscapes
The latent mandates of emotion wafting unspoken;

Yet what joy could it bring that was not suspect?

You are to me a blank slate, a clear encryption,
Interface as innocent as you are devoid
Of all those little indications
Which prove so crucial, so revelatory
To a heart unsheathed.

Yes, you are a blank slate
That I have already colored in my mind.